The Call of the Crown (Book 1)

by T. J. Garrett

  Again, Elspeth was stunned. “I would like to meet the man who could beat you… or rather, I wouldn’t, not if he was an enemy, at least.”

  Daric laughed. “He is stood beside you, Elspeth.”

  Grady bowed as Elspeth turned to him.

  “Unbelievable! Nobody had the faintest idea. Why keep it secret?”

  “Showing off isn’t the best way to avoid trouble, Elspeth. We have both had our fill of fighting. Chest beating is a young man’s game,” Grady said.

  “Of course, archery is not a guardsman’s first defence, Elspeth. A guardsman’s, or woman’s, job is to combat the unexpected, the lone assassin. If the archers are called for, things have already gone beyond simple guard work. You should practice your unarmed combat, too.”

  “So I’ve wasted my time practicing the bow?”

  “No, of course not. A guard has to be top of their game with all weapons. But guardsmen favour the knife and the short sword over all else.” Daric grabbed Gialyn by the shoulder and pulled him to the front. “Give him two of your knives.”

  Gialyn demonstrated. “No, Father, I’d rather not.”

  Daric laughed. “Come on, boy, this is a lesson for our Elspeth. You can help.”

  “As you wish, Father.” Gialyn sighed as he took the blades.

  Elspeth felt very puzzled by it all. What is he going to do? He has no talent for weapons.

  “So let’s pretend, for a moment, that we are on the battlements.” Daric ushered Gialyn to his right, in the pretence of walking the ramparts. “And there, twenty paces away, an assassin is sneaking into the royal chambers.” Daric nodded to Grady. “Would you be our sneaking assassin, friend?”

  Grady raised a nervous brow. “As you say, Daric, but don’t aim for me. I’ll come out from behind that tree, but you bloody well aim at the target, not me!”

  “Of course he will. Do not be silly.” Daric gave a wry grin. “And put those knives in your belt, Gialyn. No cheating.”

  Grady ran to the tree and hid behind—the one with the hanging target. “Ready when you are,” Grady shouted.

  Daric and Gialyn stood side by side, maybe fifteen paces from the target. Daric continued. “Now, imagine we are on guard duty, minding our own business, just talking to each other about som—”

  Suddenly, Gialyn crouched. He took a knife in each hand, and in one smooth movement, he spun on the spot and flicked the blades away.”

  Elspeth—and half the children—jumped back. They quickly turned their heads to the target. It was swaying back and forth, with Elspeth’s blades stuck firmly in the dead centre.

  “You see!” Daric said. “I didn’t even get my arrow nocked. The queen, gods bless her, would be dead if I had relied on my bow.”

  Elspeth couldn’t speak. Her mouth moved, but for the moment, she couldn’t make any words. Gialyn laughed as his cheeks reddened. Elspeth gulped and coughed away her speechlessness. “Why are you embarrassed? That is the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen. How…?”

  Gialyn sighed. “You have to be good with a knife to live in Bailryn. Even if you never use it, they have to know you can.”

  Elspeth bit her lip. She hesitated a moment before speaking. “Who are they?”

  “Anyone who thinks you might be an easy mark. Thieves are cowards. They won’t bother you if they think there is half a chance they might get a knife in the leg.”

  “Leg? Why the leg?”

  “Killing is killing. Even in Bailryn. Legs and arms are fair play to a magistrate. Killing brings too many questions—if you’re honest enough to care one way or the other, of course.”

  And that was the second time Gialyn had utterly surprised Elspeth with his worldly wisdom. Maybe she should stop thinking of him as just another simple country boy.

  Toban coughed. “Let us not talk about killing in front of the children. It is nearly dinnertime, anyway.”

  “Of course, sorry, Toban.” Gialyn bowed.

  “No harm done, I’m sure. To be honest, I’m quite interested in your tales of city living. Maybe we could all have an hour or two later at the inn. I hear Lanay is cooking tonight. She is very good.”

  “Yes, that sounds good, Toban,” Daric said. Everybody nodded.

  “Good, I’ll look forward to it,” Toban said. “Come on, you lot, let’s get tidied up. You’ve got school in half an hour.”

  Elspeth heard the moans of the children as she followed Daric and the others back towards the village. “Thank you again for you help, Mr. Toban, and you Mr. Arlec,” she said over her shoulder.

  The wolf shook his head. “It’s Toban, and you’re welcome,” he said, and Arlec nodded.

  * * *

  The Haingar, Illeas’den’s inn, was a round building of bleached white stone and one of the only buildings in Illeas’den with a slate roof. The three-story building was second only to the Hall of Wolves for size. Its grounds incorporated the stables and blacksmiths, too. The common room was unlike any other Gialyn had ever seen. Which, of course, didn’t mean much; he hadn’t been in many inns. Even so, he was certain the needs of a wolf were never part of the design of those he had visited before.

  Deep covered alcoves wrapped around every outer wall, high enough for the wolves to lie and still be eye to eye with those sat at the many chairs and stools surrounding the long tables. The ceiling was no less remarkable—thick oak beams winged around a central bar like spokes on a wheel. The common room took up half of the ground space, a full semi-circle, while private dining rooms and kitchens made up the rest of the downstairs. As for the upstairs, Gialyn couldn’t imagine who rented what must have been at least ten rooms, if not more.

  The room was bright and the atmosphere seemed friendly enough, even if Gialyn had to endure stares from every other customer. The staff were certainly friendly, anyway. Clem, the landlord, was a huge man—hugely round, at any rate, with pink cheeks and a shiny head, with only a whisker of a grey fringe. He was what Gialyn imagined every landlord should look like, a permanent smile on his face and friendly banter, too—a perfect landlord.

  The serving girls, thankfully, were nothing like as big. Most were pretty in their dark linen skirts and white blouses, with hair tied up to show their faces. All but one had a ready smile for Gialyn. That one was the oldest, probably Clem’s daughter. She took her job far too seriously for a hired hand. She seemed to revel in ordering the others back and forth.

  Grady was already perched on a stool when Gialyn finally made it to the bar.

  “Evening, lad. You took your time. Making yourself pretty for the ladies?” Grady asked.

  “No. I was waiting for Father. He is still talking to one of the Rukin about something or other. Not sure, but I think he’s asking if there are any merchant trains due that could take us with them to Cul’taris, or maybe even all the way to Bailryn.”

  “Makes sense. It’s not like we can afford horses, not that the Rukin have any to spare. I’ve only seen three, and two of them were tall horses.”

  Grady squinted around the bar, taking in the many customers who were stood about drinking and laughing. A minstrel of sorts—or a local man with a talent for the harp—was setting himself up on a shallow dais. Another man with a flute made his way through the throng towards him.

  “Looks like they are putting a show on for us, lad. Might be dancing.” He gave Gialyn a wink and a grin.

  Gialyn’s cheeks coloured. He turned to the barman and made a show of waiting. Clem acknowledged with a wave and began to lumber over. “It’s week end. Maybe it is just a regular sing-a-long,” Gialyn said. “You know what the Lesgar is like on a Saturday.”

  Grady laughed. “Lad, you’re never going to get a girl if you keep running.” He shook his head and buried his nose in his beer.

  Clem brought his smile and stood in front of Gialyn. “Evening, young master. Now, you will not mind me asking, but you do be over sixteen, do you not? If not, it will be lemon water, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m eighteen, sir. But I wil
l take the lemon just the same, please.”

  Clem’s eyes widened and Grady laughed. “Gods, there is no hope for you, boy. You act older than your father sometimes.” He shook his head at Clem, who whaled a throaty laugh at the comment.

  “I’ll not be telling a man what to drink,” Clem said, “but it’s a might peculiar and no mistake. Most times round here, a lad can’t wait to buy a draft, or a young lady for that matter.” He poured out a large mug of sugared lemon water. “There you go, young master, and you can have that one on the house for being such a polite chap. Nice to see polite young folk.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Gialyn made the best job of a short bow. He took a sip of his drink and surreptitiously peered over the rim of his mug. Even then, people caught his eye. He found himself nodding to more than one while the mug was still at his lips. He continued to investigate until he caught sight of Elspeth sat in the “corner” between Olam and Arfael. Actually, he saw Arfael first. Elspeth sat with her back to the bar.

  Arfael nodded and raised his mug—which in Arfael’s hands looked more like a small teacup. Of course, that made Elspeth turn on her stool and look in his direction. She appeared to be pleased to see him.

  Grady mumbled into his mug. “Aye, she’s impressed with you, lad. Now don’t you go running off and hiding.” Gialyn felt a tinge of excitement mixed with the butterflies beating a jig in his stomach. “Well, go on, lad. She’s waving you over.” Grady shook his head again. “Gods, I’ll never be an uncle at this rate.”

  “Uncle?” Gialyn puzzled.

  “You know what I mean. Go on!”

  Gialyn felt a kick at his ankle. “I’m going, I’m going.”

  Most of the women smiled as Gialyn squeezed through the multitude. Some of the men grunted, and even the odd woman or two gave a sideways look. Clearly, not everyone was as welcoming as Clem. And there were those that looked upon their arrival as a bad omen, apparently. Gialyn was sure he didn’t know the half of that story. Maybe some of the locals were just unfriendly to outsiders, omen or not. But the smiles outnumbered the frowns by a fair margin, thankfully.

  As the last group of locals parted to let him by, Elspeth rose from her stool and moved to the comfortable chair Olam had vacated. In turn, he had moved round to sit by Arfael. Elspeth gestured at the hard wooden stool. The smile on her face said she had considered letting him have the comfortable chair, but not for long.

  “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t be coming,” Elspeth said. She readjusted her dress—yes, a dress—around her legs as she settled in the deep cushions.

  “Father was talking to some of the Rukin. I waited, but—”

  “What was he talking about? Nothing wrong, I trust?” Olam’s question was a little too eager. Gialyn paused in positioning his mug on the table.

  He gazed at Olam with a creased brow. “No. He was asking about merchant trains. Why, is there trouble of some kind?”

  “Oh no, nothing like that, Gialyn. It is just some folk are a little… nervous.” Olam dismissed his response with a casual wave of the hand. “Nothing for you to worry about, child.”

  Gialyn pulled his stool up and arranged his mug so he could lean in closer. “Why would anyone be nervous?” he whispered. He looked over his shoulders both ways to check no one had overheard his question. Elspeth sighed and put her drink down with a thud. Clearly, this was not what she wanted to talk about.

  “Really, Gialyn, it’s nothing,” Elspeth said. “Just try and enjoy yourself. We are back on the road tomorrow.”

  Gialyn turned to her with a surprised look. “If you know something is going on, then why don’t I?”

  “Really… Gialyn, it is noth—”

  “And here they all are, or at least most of them.” Toban interrupted Elspeth’s answer.

  Gialyn turned in time to see the crowd part and allow three wolves and a tall grey-haired Rukin man through to their table. Toban stopped a short pace in front of Arfael. “Elspeth, Arfael, Olam, Gialyn, may I introduce you to Arthben, Gaiden, and Ishban: the Village Council Elders.

  Those sat at the table rose to exchange bows with the three elders and Toban. The two wolves, Arthben and Gaiden, sat themselves on the high, cushioned alcove, while Ishban pulled up a stool. Toban made do with a cushion on the floor Ishban had placed down for him.

  No sooner had they settled than Clem came scurrying up to the table, dry-washing his hands and smiling particularly widely. Behind him, the older of the serving girls was carrying a tray of—well, Gialyn wasn’t sure what it was; it could have been nuts or seeds of some kind—snacks and laid them carefully in front of the elders. She quickly curtsied and took up a position by Clem’s shoulder. Clem nodded, possibly in the hope of approval, before asking, “And what can I get you, good sirs? And may I say it is a pleasure to see you all here?” He bowed.

  Ishban, the Rukin man, nodded back. “I don’t know about anybody else, Clem, but I’ll take a mug of your fine wine, sir.” The others nodded in agreement, two more enthusiastically than the other one; Arthben had a face that could crack walnuts.

  Clem waved off the serving girl. “Go on, Kalina. One mug, three bowls. Quick now, go!” Kalina’s smile abruptly fell as she about-turned and darted back towards the bar. “Now, if there is anything else you need,” Clem said, looking mainly, if not completely, at the council members, “then don’t hesitate to shout… or, uh… no. Just wave. I’ll keep an eye out.” With that, he bowed and followed Kalina back to the bar.

  “Strange fellow. You would think he had never seen us before.” Ishban laughed as he picked up a nut, or seed. “Get a few visitors and the whole town turns to fools.”

  “They may well have good reason to be weary, Ishban.” Arthben made a point of turning his head away from Arfael as he spoke. He was the largest and possibly oldest of the three wolves sat round the table. Gialyn didn’t think a wolf could possibly get any bigger than Toban, yet he had seen two or three much larger in the short time he had spent in Illeas’den.

  Toban rolled his eyes at Arthben’s comment. “We are not here to talk about that, Arthben. We are here to keep our new friends company.”

  Arthben squared his eyes on the Alpha. “Nothing is beyond talk, Toban. And if not now, when?”

  “I don’t disagree,” Gaiden said. He seemed the most… congenial of the three, other than Toban, of course. “But there is a place, as well as a time, for such matters. And an inn is not the place.”

  “Well, the time is now! Inn or not. If this omen is to be believed, we must guide the Kin. It is our sworn duty, our sacred duty. We owe that much to our ancestors.”

  Gialyn, who was far from enthusiastic when it came to listening to quarrels, began to rise from his stool in the hope of leaving them to it. Only to be pulled back down to his seat by Elspeth. “You’re not leaving me here alone,” she whispered.

  They continued. “As of yet, we know nothing other than a Kel’mai has visited us. You are jumping at shadow and prophecy, Arthben. Gods, we do not even know if he is, in fact, Arlyn Gan’ifael.” Gaiden said the last much too loudly to be ignored. A hush descended on the common room as all eyes turned to the table.

  Toban shook his head. “There is nothing to be done one way or the other, Arthben. If news reaches us, if your fears are realised, we will still have months to prepare. The Madden cannot launch an invasion without every man, woman, and child east of the Drieg hearing of it weeks before an attack.”

  Arthben wouldn’t give up. Kalina brought their drinks. Toban and the others tried engaging Olam, Arfael, and even Gialyn in small talk. Elspeth joined in the talk about the hot weather. However, for all their efforts to lighten the mood…

  “We don’t know how much time we have. We should send emissaries. Preparations need to be made.”

  Toban’s mood changed for the worse on hearing of emissaries. “I know of what you speak, Arthben. We will not involve the Darkin in this. It is too dangerous. Nobody has spoken with them in two generations. They have… change
d.”

  Arthben huffed indignantly. “That’s folly and travellers’ tales, Toban. You should know better than to put stock in such yarns.”

  “They have changed. People I trust have seen it. They are twice the size they were and fiercely guarded about it. I will not send emissaries to them on a whim.”

  “A whim? You accuse me of being whimsical at a time like this.”

  “A time like what? Nothing has happened. We have a visitor. The sky is not falling down.”

  “You watch your station, Toban. We are the council, and until war is declared and the Battle-brother’s oath sworn, we are still supreme, for the good of ALL Rukin.”

  Arfael’s fist came down on the table with enough force to crack the maple top. The silence that had accompanied the wolves’ argument was now ushered into gasps of incredulity. Gialyn shrunk into his stool. He gulped at the sight of painted rage on Arfael’s face.

  “My duty is my own,” Arfael shouted. “I’m not yours to be guided!”

  Whispers like a distant plague of locusts filled the common room. Feet shuffled as an arch of space opened around the table where Arfael sat. Even Arthben, for once, was silent.

  And then the song began. The minstrel chorded his harp. The flutist droned a sorrowful melody. And the man began to sing:

  “In Arlyn, brave Arlyn, our honour be sworn,

  To fight evil ‘til the end of our days.

  And not rest when we hear triumph’s horn,

  Arlyn Gan’ifael, the blessed, we pray.

  “Hear now, you sons of the mountain high,

  Do not fail your Kin of the Isle.

  Lay down your sword at the throne of your foe,

  And fail the sons of Ifael.

  “His voice shall sing once more in the fields,

  When the witches of Eiras do come.

  The dragons’ breath brings fire upon us all,

  As the Madden, they beat on their drum.

  “Aye, the tales they tell of Blackwing of Old,

  And the brothers wage war on our lands.